Words of Comfort
by a certain slant of light
Summary: Ashe questions Balthier's intent as a poet. “I’ve no doubt any poetry you’d write would be well written indeed,” she assured him. “But I’m afraid the sentiment would come from your britches, not your heart.” [BalthierAshe]


**Author's Note:** **Edit: Formerly "To Be Proven Wrong". **A sudden inspiration to write poetry, and blam! we've got some Balthier/Ashe goodness. Yeah, I'm not even that big a fan of the pairing, but it seemed to be the only suitable one. Yes, I wrote the poem. I do that, I'm a poet, and I rather adore employing the devices bestowed upon us by Old English. Some of the Old English is a little off, but I'm taking liberties considering the language in Final Fantasy XII is anachronistic anyway.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Final Fantasy XII or any of its respective characters, settings, etcetera. I only own the poem.

* * *

"To Be Proven Wrong"  
_By Genetix Chiquita_

Ashe wandered away from their temporary encampment, her path illuminated by the firelight and dimly lit sconces lining the tomb's walls. Raithwall's catacombs proved to be more troublesome than she had anticipated, and rather than a collection of stairs loomed a labyrinthine mess of spidering halls and walkways infested with the undead. Mind traveling yet farther from thoughts of sleep, she approached the entrance of their small alcove of safety, curious to see who was on watch. When she discovered it was Balthier, the dashing pirate, seated against the wall with legs bent and arms rested on his knees, she was equal parts pleased and frustrated. 

Unsure of how to proceed but craving conversation, she neared him hesitantly and leaned against the wall. "They say you write poetry," she said simply, sounding aloof.

"Who are they, pray tell?" he asked her, apparently unfazed by her sudden appearance.

Ashe shrugged. "Vaan and Penelo, of course, with an affirmation from Fran."

Balthier chuckled. "I dabble, I suppose you could say."

"Another means by which to impress the ladies?" Ashe wondered if all his hobbies stemmed from a one-track mind.

"You're to tell me women do not love poetry?" He glanced up at her. "My, it seems I've been going about this wooing business in all the wrong ways."

She rolled her eyes. "Poetry is meaningless if you do not write with your heart," she told him.

"Am I to assume you are a poet, milady?" he asked, amused.

"Hardly," she confessed and scoffed. "I find poetry a frivolous pastime completely. In these times, poets write with their heads, not their hearts. They think first of the public's adoration, and second of their own emotion. Poetry is a farce."

"I can see you've little faith in the majesty of words," he mumbled almost incoherently.

"That's hardly the case," Ashe protested. "Words are wonderful, the very root of civility. Poetry is nothing but an elaborate ruse to captivate and ensnare the gullible and naïve."

"You think me a predator then?" Balthier's tone was curious, and he chuckled. "Or perhaps only a predatory poet."

"I've no doubt any poetry you'd write would be well-written indeed," she assured him. "But I'm afraid the sentiment would come from your britches, not your heart."

Balthier let out a hearty laugh, quite entertained. "You're keen on assumptions, I can see that. Perhaps you'd like a poem, then?"

Ashe shook her head. "I'd like nothing less. No amount of plagiarized emotion will court me to you, sky pirate."

"So you see me as a heartless pirate who preys on women who _do_ appreciate the written word?" His eyebrows rose in merriment. "You think lowly of me, princess, to assume me such a common cad."

"A cad you may be, though common you are not. You romanticize your so-called commitment to women, though undressed it is nothing but the same desire of all men." She looked at him frankly. "You, sir, are a dandy cad."

"Well," he said wickedly, "my desire does often involve some level of undressing."

Ashe would have laughed if she wasn't taken so aback. Growing weary of the conversation, she turned. "Good night, Balthier," she said curtly.

"Good night, princess," he replied, turning back to observe the entrance of the alcove. "Enemy of Archadia and all the world's poets."

* * *

Ashe discovered hours later onboard the _Shiva _that hours of exploration and frustration turned out to be nothing but a hardscrabble attempt. Irate with her own carelessness, she sat stubbornly on the cold steel ground of their large communal holding cell, hands balled into fists despite her shackles. The imperial fleet had preyed upon them, allowing her to accomplish the hard work and effort to retrieve the Dawn Shard, and then swooped in and stolen it from them. The underhandedness made her sick with rage. 

"Nothing but tarses and vultures," she hissed, anger boiling within her. She knew somewhere on the ship Ghis was laughing and cradling the shard, and Vossler's betrayal did nothing to cushion the blow to her dignity. This was not the way she would restore her country.

"Hardly a time for anger, princess," Balthier's voice, smooth as fine silk, cooed from behind her. "Not while in shackles, in any case."

"Oh, enough with you!" she seethed, turning to him. "That is supposed to comfort me? What the ladies see in you I shall never know!"

Balthier rolled his eyes. "Reach inside my pocket."

Ashe blinked. "Pardon?"

"Reach inside my pocket," he repeated.

Ashe looked around, relieved that the others were rather absorbed in conversation and strategy with each other. She glared at Balthier. "I hardly think this the time for you to go about spewing such nonsense!"

"Princess, if you would please just do as I ask," he insisted, exasperated.

Furious and embarrassed, she humored him and reached a hand inside the pocket of his pants. Trying not to blush from sheer terrified embarrassment, her fingers brushed a slip of paper. Grasping it with white knuckles, she quickly withdrew her hands, her glare steady.

"Now, was that really so difficult?" he asked theatrically.

"What is this?" She held up the paper, beleaguered by his flirtatious antics.

"Words of comfort," he said simply and walked away. She stared after him as he struck up a conversation with Fran, no doubt a means of escape, and couldn't help but crumple the paper in her hands. She resolved to never humor him twice in the same day, and instead tucked the paper inside her boot and went to discuss their escape with Basch.

* * *

Time passed with their elusion of the _Shiva_ seeming ethereal. They were now relaxing in a tavern in Rabanastre, the Sandsea, before beginning their newest quest to Jahara and the Garif village. 

Emotionally exhausted and weary from the carrier ship's turbulence, Ashe placed a few gil on the table, finished her drink, and left the others. Weaving through the tavern's patrons and barmaids, she found the door leading to the various rooms that dictated the building's inn wing. Quickly finding hers and sliding the key in, she entered and shut the door behind her, wanting nothing more than a dreamless sleep.

Placing her sheathed sword and shield by the headboard, she began undressing. Slipping on a nightgown (a luxury she could rarely afford whilst they were in camp), she allowed herself to revel in the feeling for a moment. Tidying up her clothing for the following day, she folded it and placed it on the nightstand, aligning her shoes beside it. Glancing around to make sure she'd missed nothing, she noticed an errant piece of disheveled paper on the floor near her feet.

"Words of comfort," she muttered sarcastically, suddenly reminded of the damned pirate who had taken her ring. Her conscience fought for a few moments, one side demanding indignantly that she tear it to shreds and force feed it to Balthier, and the other overcome with morbid curiosity. Her curiosity won and got the better of her, and so she bent to pick it up. Unfolding it with crass distaste, she reluctantly read its contents.

_"To She Who Abhors Poetry,_

_In such a state as this we find,  
Camp'd in tombs of heart and mind,  
The writ of scroll and ink's romance,  
Is naught but fate's pursuit of chance._

_I'd hardly write to quell a thirst,  
Of mind than heart (lest britches burst);  
I'd rather thoughts of warm embrace,  
Than parade as if I've lived life chaste._

_Thy velvet tongue does strike my pleas,  
And fell me so from sky to knees,  
To pray in solemn king's repose,  
Thou revise the wife of prose:_

_She's nary a maiden warm nor fair,  
With steel eyes and slicing hair,  
As thou may paint her on the walls,  
Within the lonesome, gilded halls._

_She sings for thee, a song well scribed,  
And hopes with fervor thy heart's belied,  
So, I' faith, do kiss her hands,  
For, maiden-to-maiden, she understands,_

_The dark chamber of heart's sole lust,  
To love and be so, for existence must.  
Then allow these words I've thought with heart,  
To spell your own when we're apart._

_Sincerely,  
A Dandy Cad"  
_

_  
_

Raising a hand to her mouth, Ashe read the poem again and again, feeling the words rather than seeing them. Lost in the poetry, she knew what Balthier was telling her. It was less a love poem and more a sharp response of indignation, and all at once she felt guilty for accusing him of never thinking with his heart. Carefully folding the paper, she placed it beneath her pillow, and though still angry at him for taking her ring, had found a new respect for him.

Because, honestly, how could she have known she would ever be proven wrong so beautifully?


End file.
